In late July I got on a plane and flew to Austin, landing on a Friday evening to a city pulsing with shimmering heat and a palpable energy in anticipation of the weekend . This was a trip originally bound for San Francisco back in May of 2020. At that time, my nephew would’ve been about 9 months, and my niece was not in existence yet.
Evelyn had just surpassed my mom in height. We watched Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night. My mother’s garden, the hydrangeas and sunflowers. My dad playing 22 with the kids. Hot chocolate in the middle of summer every morning with my mom, before I had awoken and come downstairs—their little ritual. The nostalgia of Jimmy Cone Ice Cream, a scrappy little place that I used to go to in high school with my friends.
The wonderful (dreaded) holidays are upon us. I had hoped to get all my Christmas shopping done early this year, which is a goal I have every November and inevitably do not achieve. I guess there is still time, but I’m not optimistic.
I woke up this morning feeling annoyed that my life is not easier. Simpler. As in, why do humans need to eat so regularly that there is constantly food to be bought and prepared and then dishes to clean and put away, all just to be brought down and dirtied up just a few hours later?
20 years ago the weather was very similar to how it is today. Maybe not quite as breezy, but very bright, blue, and sunny. It was beautiful. It was a Tuesday, and I was in Mrs. Robb’s 10th grade Biology class waiting for the bell to ring to dismiss us when one of my classmates’ younger brothers knocked on the door to tell us that school was being let out early.
I won’t pretend to know the intricacies and nuances as to what is going on in Afghanistan and how the past decades contribute to the reality on the ground right now. I can’t possibly begin to know the complexities of the religious, political, and tribal influences at play in a place I am not a part of, in a culture I know nothing of firsthand.
Today was the first day of school for the kids. I had to be at work early, so I couldn’t see them off on the bus, but I will get the chance tomorrow. I’ve decided that the three afternoons a week that the kids are practicing at the same time, I will claim those hours as my writing hours. They are mine. I will try to remember my outdoor chair that I use to watch their games, but when I don’t have that, I will sit in the grass or against fences or in my car if the weather is appropriate, which is not the case right now. It is soupy and the air is heavy and thick. A good rainstorm will clear it out.
I’m closing in on three weeks of being off of work. It’s been glorious but also the same holds true for me now as it did in high school--when I am busier, I am more productive. Whenever I was in season for any one of my sports, I always did better in school. The constraints were actually good for me. They forced me to get done what I needed to get done because I knew that I wouldn’t have a chance to do it later because of practice or a game.
I pick up a bag of kale in the fridge to check the sell-by date, it said June 9. I couldn’t remember if we were ahead of that date or behind. I genuinely asked myself if we were still in May? June 9th feels surreal, not possible, yet it was 5 days ago.
I began writing this piece on Election Day 2020. I’ve always enjoyed the communal aspect and buzzing energy of Election Day, and this past one was no different. What was different was my anxiety and existential dread of the possibility that the sitting president would stay in office. Still, I was excited. And maybe even a little bit hopeful. Maybe we could course correct, or, what I really feel like saying: maybe we wouldn’t fuck this up again.
